Chapter 11 - The Cornered Prey
Viktor filled the nursery doorway, his broad shoulders blocking every inch of the exit. Water dripped from the hem of his dark trench coat onto the hardwood floor, pooling in a small, ominous puddle. He didn't look angry; he looked entirely professional, like a mechanic about to perform a routine engine repair.
"Mr. and Mrs. Sterling," Viktor said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate through the walls of the small room. "Ms. Vance requested your presence in the study. The transport documents require immediate execution."
"We're not going anywhere with you, Viktor," Clara said, stepping in front of Leo’s crib to shield her sleeping son with her own body. Her hand slid down to her ankle, feeling the hard edge of the USB flash drive tucked securely inside her sock. "Tell Beatrice we're done signing her fraudulent papers."
Marcus stood beside Clara, trembling so violently that he had to grab the wooden frame of the changing table for support. "Viktor, listen to me," Marcus stammered, his voice cracking. "There's been a change in plans. We're not getting on that transport flight tomorrow. Call Beatrice off."
Viktor didn't blink. He took one slow, deliberate step into the nursery, his eyes cold and dead. "Ms. Vance doesn't change plans, Mr. Sterling. She only executes them."
Before Viktor could lunge forward, Marcus suddenly snapped. The cowardice that had defined him for days evaporated, replaced by a desperate, suicidal surge of adrenaline. He grabbed a heavy wooden lamp from the nursery side table and hurled it directly at Viktor’s head.
The lamp missed its mark, shattering against the doorframe in an explosion of ceramic and wire, but the distraction was all Clara needed.
"Run!" Clara screamed, scooping little Leo out of his crib in one fluid motion, the toddler waking with a startled cry against her shoulder.
She bolted past Viktor toward the open hallway, but the security guard reacted with terrifying speed. He sidestepped the shattered lamp, grabbed Marcus by the collar of his black shirt with one massive hand, and slammed him hard against the nursery wall, the impact knocking the wind straight out of Marcus's lungs with a sickening thud.
"Clara, go!" Marcus choked out, gasping for air as Viktor’s heavy forearm pressed down across his throat.
Clara sprinted down the hallway toward the stairs, clutching Leo tight against her chest. The toddler was crying loudly now, his little hands gripping the collar of Clara’s shirt in blind panic.
She reached the top of the wooden stairs—the exact spot where Beatrice had pushed Leo days ago. As she prepared to run down, a flash of green silk appeared at the bottom of the staircase.
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Beatrice stood there, holding a silver fireplace poker, her expression cold, serene, and utterly merciless.
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